


from the ashes, once again

by commandont



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: (in the future most definitely), (or at least my take on it anyways lmao), Canon Divergent, Fluff & Angst, Mollymauk Lives AU, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags Are Hard, Tags Subject to Change, Warning Subject To Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-02 19:49:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16311593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commandont/pseuds/commandont
Summary: "It was clear to see, despite the obstruction of his mind and his understanding, that he was clearly dead sometime before. But someone - or something - didn't want him to be."--A tiefling wakes up in a forest as the morning rain hits, with no recollection of who he is, where he is or where he's going - a lost soul in the fog. Life has begun anew again, and it's time for him to learn what it means to live another time over, all while finding the purpose of it all.





	from the ashes, once again

**Author's Note:**

> (slams my ass down) hey I live here now
> 
> So this is my first fic for the fandom!! I’m super excited because this is honestly really self-indulgent but I’m super excited to uhhh get this ball rolling m’dudes! I hope you like it! I love Molly more than I love myself and I wanted to just (clenches fist) let him live and have fun and stuff, ya know? I'll make tag updates and put warnings here per applicable chapter, so you're aware as and when some bad stuff happens >;3cc
> 
> Updates may be a bit sporadic due to my college schedules and also really bad anxiety I can get at times, please bare with me ;;
> 
> Comments, suggestions and predictions are always appreciated, my tumblr is here if you wanna shoot me an ask or a message!! \o/

The first thing he felt when consciousness stirred him was something cold and damp against his face, and a darkness that made him squeeze his eyes shut as soon as he opened them. Closing his mouth as soon as he opened it, something threaten to shovel itself in as he barely let out a choked noise, he almost felt his body jerk itself back into reality, life gently breathing itself into his nose and through every pore resting exposed under the earth, unable to move his arms as they were packed to his side in some kind of wrapping. Though this brought no emotional comfort, as his mind felt nothing but fog and confusion, the concept of living to foreign and yet, the reality was just that, the only tie to this strange plane of existence was a sickening emptiness in his stomach and chest, nothing there and yet it was so painful, like his insides had been taken and rearranged into new and uncomfortable positions, in some morbid organ puzzle.

 

The mind fog only seemed to thicken as he pulled his shoulders back, trying to free himself from the cocoon he'd been so tightly wrapped in, movements seeming sloppy and slow, and almost not his own. The way he slid his hands out was almost cinematic - something he was watching from the outside in - as he pushed out like some kind of flower amassing from the dirt in the dead of winter, cold morning dew brushing against the back of it with a soft whistle of a breeze breezing through his fingertips, contrasting to the warmness of his from that flowed through his veins like a river, the sound of his heart beating echoing and bouncing in his ears. The other hand soon followed, his arms moving to push his head up and into the light, something that even with closed eyes, caused him to almost reel back into non-existence. A wave of vertigo hit him hard and fast as he exhaled and inhaled again, the air as cold as had been felt moments before against his hands, nausea forming like a storm in the pit of a stomach that didn't feel like it was there. Opening his eyes - slowly, almost unsurely - he looked down at his hands, covered in skin of a violet hue, dirt gathered under the delicately manicured fingernails, before looking around, the bottom half of him still gathered under a shallow grave. As he moved his arms up to his head, fingertips gently stroking the horns either side of his head that were adorned in chains and rings, before slowly moving his hands down to shake the dirt out of his hair. There was a morning fog hanging in the air around him, almost matching the empty headspace he had, though like he had pushed through the dirt, thoughts and emotions were beginning to push through the fog. Fear. Confusion. How did he get to be here? Tiredness. Why was he buried, presumably alive? Pain. Nausea - overwhelmingly so. Why couldn't he remember anything from before waking up?-

 

A pause. He moved his hands out of his hair and stared down at them again, turning them from palm to back, before looking up and squinting at the sun hidden behind clouds in the dull morning sky, a light drizzle starting to hit his face.

 

Why couldn't he remember who he was?

 

Swallowing back his own hesitation and possible bile rising to the back of his throat, the tiefling moved his hands to either side of the grave and pushed himself up to stand, stepping onto the wet grass just in front and bending down to brush the dirt off of his pants, running his hands down the fabric slower each time before standing to his full height, rubbing his fingertips against one another in gentle contemplation, a lightweight heat emanating from them. Moving his hands to his sides, the tiefling kept looking down, eyes meeting the front of his own shirt to find it dried and crushed with blood, presumably his own. Panic set into his system for a moment as he moved to touch the area, wincing a little at the tender skin underneath. For a moment, he went to move to lift up his shirt, but a fat drop of rain hitting his nose made him jump and recoil away, looking up at the grey skies above him, clouds growing heavy with tears. Looking around, he found himself drawn back to the grave he rose from, freshly unsettled dirt sitting in a small pile near the bottom of it, barely covering a now damp but still needlessly gaudy tapestry sitting in the pathetic ditch - the very same he was cocooned in, only to be reborn, it seemed. Continuing to look, he moved his gaze past the tapestry and to the oddly coloured and patterned coat hanging off of a stick at the head of the grave, a twin blade sheath with a pair of swords in it resting at the base, and to the small section of trees just behind it as a backdrop. A shield to the coming wind and rain, at the very least. He moved his hands away from the bottom hem of his shirt as water ran down his face, and he walked - practically stumbled, more accurately - over to the loose, overhanging arch of leaves leading into a small woodland area. Like a child first learning to walk, he tripped over his own feet a little and barely caught himself from falling, slamming his hand into the tree just in front of him to steady his balance, already breathing heavily, as if he wasn’t used to the action. Turning slightly where he stood so his back was pressed against the trunk, the tiefling slid down the bark to a sitting position, closing his eyes and attempting to steady his breathing as he listening to the rain hitting the leaves above his head grow heavier and more frantic, a shower of water passing from the clouds overhead.

 

A hand found itself reaching to his chest again, delicately running its fingers along the dried blood that stained his shirt, and picking at the tears in the fabric, ones that were rather large and jagged, cloth fraying at the seams of the cut. Slowly, his fingers found their way down to the hem of the shirt once more and, as he began straightening his leg out to try and at least reduce the stinging pain in his abdomen, he leant forward to inspect the wounds that felt like pins and needles in the bottom of his stomach. Nausea came back quickly in response, as he swallowed any reaction, bile and all, to the ugly, half-healed and bloody mess, cuts both meeting and rotting, with blood congealing out of a few in ugly, oxygenless blobs, skin sore around each and every one of them. With the mess it was, something that was supposed to be on the inside was now probably on the outside, but he didn’t look long enough to confirm if that was the truth. Letting the hem of his shirt settle around his waist again, the tiefling pulled himself back, back of his head resting against the bark of the tree, the chains on his horns softly jingling in response to such a subtle movement, almost making him frown a little. Questions were piling up in the tens against the answers he had, but everything still seemed as hazy and meek in his head as the reality around him. It was clear that something was wrong - then again, if you’d been buried alive covered in wounds, scars and presumably your own blood, how could it not be? He let out a quiet exhale, air still feeling almost foreign to his lungs as he closed his eyes once more and listened to the sound of almost silence, rain slowing down to a contemplative drizzle, water gently running off of the leaves hanging over his head, trickling from the tips and dropping like mini bombs of liquid onto the grass and dirt, both unsettled and still.

 

As he opened his eyes again, it was almost instinct he looked over to the rather flashy coat -on-a-stick again. How could he not? In contrast with the fog and dull landscape, it stood proudly with such a bold palette that it was almost aristocratic, dark magenta in colour and laced with many unique symbols decorating its exterior. He began pushing his back harder against the back of the tree, using it as support as he stood to his feet, wobbling for a moment before slowly walking over, almost half-expecting another wave of bad luck to wash over it and for him to be held at knifepoint or killed, as if this was some kind of trap. But nothing of the sort happened as he got closer and closer to the almost robe-like coat, his foot catching the sheath on the floor, and for a moment he stumbled to get out of the way before gently running his hand down the gold-trimmed lapel, jerking his hand away quickly at the damp feeling under his fingers. Rubbing his fingertips against one another at the feeling, he went to touch the coat again. He shouldn’t have been surprised, really, it was just raining like nobody’s business only minutes before.

 

Slowly crouching down to the wet grass, careful as to not lose his balance, he now looked to the belted sheath holding a pair of swords - scimitars, on closer inspection, neatly decorated and well cared for, the hilts lightly sprinkled with raindrops from the passing shower. Brushing the water off, he gently took hold of one and pulled it out, turning a little to the right to wave it in the damp air, cutting through the fog with swift motions... almost on instinct, as if he’d done it all before. Lightly frowning, he brought the sword back closer to him once more, holding the flat side of the blade, eyes tracing over every detail like he was inspecting a well-aged painting. He almost was, in a way - the two crafts could be acquainted, in this case, to almost perfection in their class. With a slight twirl - again, almost on instinct - he turned back to the sheath and slid the blade back into place, hand moving from the hilt of the scimitar to grab the belt… eyes falling on a small card resting with it’s back to the leather, damp from the rain, but not totally ruined.

 

A tarot card. Symbol; the moon.

 

He hadn’t noticed it before, considering how small and unremarkable it looked compared to twin swords crafted so lovingly and carefully, but its placement was certainly intentional. Nipping the top of it between his forefinger and thumb, he brought it up to closer inspection, watching the little sun shining through the passing clouds of rain reflect off of the slightly damp surface. A moon overlooked a small bound of land, eyes closed, watching over a dog and small dragon that stared up at it, almost begging for salvation or answers, a scorpion rising from the depths of the lake to join them. A path extended into the distance over rolling hills. It was almost ironic, from what he was interpreting at least, enough to make him smile a little as he fiddled with the card between his fingers as you would a coin, looking back up to the coat again.

 

In a swift motion with his free hand, he grabbed the coat and pulled it from the stick holding it about ground level. Keeping the moon card between two fingers of one hand, he used the others to pry the collar of one side up a little, enough for him to move his other arm through the sleeve. Thankfully it wasn’t as damp on the inside as it was on the outside, he thought as he switched the card from one hand to the other, putting the coat on and adjusting the collar. He couldn’t stay here, not by a long shot, and what kind of idiot would he be if he left incredibly helpful things behind? As he reached down to grab the belt holding the two scimitars together, he slid his hand with the card into one of the coat’s front pockets… pausing as he crouched down again at the feeling of another piece of paper in there. Damp with indirect rainwater, and slightly rough, but most certainly not part of the coat’s inner lining. Letting his fingers unclasp from the card, they moved to the foreign piece of paper, pulling it out.

 

It was folded, ink slightly seeping through from the inside of the paper, where words were contained. Standing back to his full height, he turned towards the sun, hidden behind clouds but yet still rising to reach midday, slowly unfolding the paper to reveal… a letter, to which he read with narrowed eyes - both out of suspicion and a need to, due to the damage, which was only an inconvenience rather than something that made the whole thing unreadable entirely. Well, mostly.

 

_Dear Mollymauk,_

_We apologise for having to leave you like this, but we had to move forward. If you’re reading this letter, history has repeated itself. Miracles come few and far between, but then again, you have always been one for the unlikely._

_You’ve probably gathered that you were buried in the ground, and the reason for that was that you weren’t of this world anymore. An encounter we could have planned better ended in the worst possible way, at your expense, and we can give nothing but apologies. It’s a hope for us that we’re able to right our wrongs post-haste, and avenge you, in the_ event _this letter isn’t worth it._

_Additionally, there’s also a chance you’re unable to remember anything, as you said when you first mentioned this miracle to us. Even you yourself were unsure of the reasons for your original return, so we can’t help you in that regard, but we can give you what we know. Your name is Mollymauk Tealeaf, and you are not only incredibly skilled with a blade, but with people as well. Here’s to that continuing into the future._

_If you’re able, please make your way to the city of Zadash post-haste, and visit The Gentleman in the bottom of the Evening Nip tavern. It’s a rather unsavoury business he runs, hence the shady location, but if you’re able to mention that you bring many gifts,_ passage _should be allowed. We can also assure you that, despite your possible lack of memory to this, you have been in this practice before, so if you are allowed passage without these instructions, it’s because you were recognized - it’s hard to forget someone as vibrant as you, through life or death._

_It’s understandable if you’re wary of this, but it’s in our best interest and yours that you leave this road immediately. We only ask that you trust us._

_With regards, and best wishes,_

_The Mighty Nein_

~~_P.S if you’re a bandit reading this letter and you stole molly’s stuff, fuck you. give it back asshole. we’ll find you_ ~~

 

The majority of the letter was written in almost paradoxical writing - clearly well-trained and honed penmanship of someone of a higher class, and yet, it was messy and almost unintelligible - there was no care, intentionally or otherwise, and, in combination with the water damage, he had spent several minutes squinting trying to read the words being communicated to him from paper. It was almost ironic, then, that the redacted note at the very end, with a single, swift line through the pointed remark, was actually almost neater than the majority of the letter (if only by marginally) and mostly intact, a lack of capitalisation and different formations of letters indicating that this was someone new. This group called The Mighty Nein had at least two members, then? And presumably, seven more, considering the ‘nein’ at the end - nine misspelt, was his assumption, again another thing to add into the paradox. Someone with handwriting both neat and messy, using language so sophisticated and yet they couldn’t spell the word nine.

 

Though more interesting than these observations was the contents of the letter itself. These people knew him, enough to tell him his name - though who knew if that was the truth. And he apparently knew them too, at some point, yet nothing they said felt familiar at all - not even a hint of something in the head fog that told him that this was right, that they were trustworthy. Despite that, though, something felt… right. Connected. Words throughout the letter - ‘miracle’, ‘weren’t of this world’, ‘at your expense’ - hit points and suspicions beginning to arise in his conclusions of the events he couldn’t remember. He was dead, but now he wasn’t. He had been travelling with these people, but not anymore. And this had happened once before - mentions of talking about his ‘miracle’ of a previous resurrection, a second life he couldn’t remember just as much as his first, the slate wiped clean for a third time now, perhaps even more than a past him couldn’t remember at all.

 

It was clear to see, despite the obstruction of his mind and his understanding, that he was clearly dead sometime before. But someone - or something - didn't want him to be.

 

It was as sure as ever that he had to get out of here, to get to a city or some other semblance of civilisation - if not for himself, then to understand what the hell these people were to him. The city of Zadash… he stared down at the letter again, frustration forming on his face. Despite any effort, he could remember nothing - nothing sounded familiar, nothing made sense. Looking up again as he balled his fist up, hearing the wet paper almost squelch under his grip, he looked up to the road ahead. Empty, but seeming to head in the direction of at least something, if the tracks through this section of wilderness were anything to go by. Quickly shoving the letter into the other pocket, both now containing some form of damp paper, he bent down and snatched the swords up from the grass, quickly adjusting them to hang from either side of his waist, placing a hand on the right scimitar and looking back towards the trail ahead.

 

With the rain coming to a crawl now, the sound of approaching horses wasn’t as masked, even with the muddy ground under their large hooves being a squelching, disgusting cushion from a distance. The tiefling continued to watch the approaching cart, one that was dirty but seemed well maintained despite that, headed by two older, rather disgruntled looking horses, their manes and pelt damp from the rain, reaching his hand into the pocket containing the letter, almost for comfort, in a hopes that it was, by some miracle, linked to the cart, and he would finally have some kind of answer to one of his many questions. At first glance, a rider to the cart was not visible, though the reins still tugged and whipped as if someone was there. Then again, knowing his foggy state of existence right now, perhaps this riderless cart wasn’t real in the first place - simply a figment of the imagination, a signifier of moving on from one plane to the next. Swallowing the rising anxiety as best he could, he slowly turned to face the cart, keeping one hand in his pocket, and the other on the single sword on his belt.

 

The cart stopped a few metres short of it, and from the front seat, a gnome stood up, practically on her tip-toes just to see him - before hopping off of the side, grumbling for a moment as she took a few disgruntled steps, now stood in fresh mud, quickly grabbing the ends of her coat too long for her and tying it off to be much shorter than before. Made sense why she couldn't be seen at first glance, if even her coat was too big. Tugging at the goggles around her neck, she did a quick service of the area, before focusing her eyes on the tiefling in front of her.

"Uh, heya, pal." She gave a small wave, before moving the same hand into a pocket of her pants, patchy and splattered with stains of various colours and ages, billowing slightly at the top of her boots, while the other remained loose at her side. "Couldn't help but notice you were looking a little lost there. And uh... not in the best of ways, heh."

Mollymauk (if that was indeed what his name was) glanced down at himself for a moment, at the blood and tears in his shirt, before staring up at the gnome again. Her hair was light in colour, almost like a dirty sunray, and cut short with the sides messily kept as short as she could probably muster from a self-cut job, all aside from one waving piece to the left side of her face, that seemed to curl and tickle the side of her jaw.

Odd coloured eyes looked him up and down again, before closing them with a soft sigh, moving her free hand to rub under her nose, almost in contemplation. "It's not exactly out of the ordinary to find someone off their head on some kinda narcotics this side of the Shady Creek but geez, pal... no offence, but who's shit did you stir?" She almost laughed, though it soon fell flat as a frown tugged her lips down again.

For a moment, he thought about pulling out the letter again, showing her just what was written on it in the hopes it would make more sense to her than him, but... that was stupid, crazy even. Instead, he just stared, watching as her face shifted from slight exasperation to something of concern, seeing something in him he wasn't meaning to convey.

"Look, whatever ya took a hit of clearly's got you fucked up, even still, and you clearly saw somethin' fucked if... ya. Wherever yer goin' next, it's not back there. They'll chew ya up like some buffet straight from Rex." For a moment, she paused, almost biting her tongue, pinching at the bridge of her nose, the scar running across it now more obvious as it was indirectly pointed to in her frustrations. "God, Ma was right- c'mon, I'll give ya a ride somewhere better than here. People get lost around these parts, though no one really gives a damn- still, shame if it were to happen."

There was a tone of reluctance in her voice, as if she was conceding to a truth she had long been denying, as she slowly gestured to her cart. A ride away from where he was planning to go, somewhere that was apparently bad and/or dangerous, but somewhere that wasn’t the middle of nowhere at the very least. Like a sweeping wave, he let his eyes glide over the scenery surrounding him a final time - to the trees still dripping with rain, to the grass laying damp beneath his feet, to the dirt that laid unsettled among his shallow grave, only half-burying the tapestry that held him so tightly many minutes before. Slowly, he reached down and grabbed a corner of the tapestry, rescuing it from the dirt - though wet clumps of it now clung to the fabric - and holding it up to the light of morning. It was deeply gaudy, almost nauseating, a large dragon embroidered into it. It certainly had a lot of love and care put into its construction, but… what kind of person would purchase this in sane mind? Despite this, though, he folded it up as best he could, throwing it over his arm before looking back up to the gnome, who still was gesturing to the cart, patiently waiting for his response.

 

A step forward was what he gave her. As he climbed into the cart and slid to free a space for her, he strained his neck to get a final look at the grave he once resided in. Whoever the Mighty Nein were, they were the ones who put him in there. And if life truly left him when they did so… they could be trusted, couldn’t they? Or was this some kind of elaborate reverse-psychology, where the real villains behind the sinister murder plot were the ones who posed as allies all along? He gritted his teeth, tearing his gaze away from his resting place with much effort, just as the helpful gnome climbed into the cart to join him, grabbing the reins and looking over to him with a smile - tired, almost defeated, but nonetheless, warm.

“Because of yer shenanigans, we’re gonna have to camp out before I can get back home. Hope ya don’t mind the great outdoors, buddy.” Her smile widened slightly into a small grin, before she looked back ahead to the horses, snapping her wrists in a swift motion to get them to move forward again, which they did with only so much as a loud, almost irritated whine in protest.

 

Mollymauk looked back to his gravesite once more, before looking down at the tapestry on his arm, and the jacket he was wearing, before finally looking to the open road in front of him, trees gathering either side before growing sparse and into open, dull fields. A lazy hand found itself going back into the pocket of his coat, pulling out the card retrieved from the tomb, letting it dance between his fingers, morning light catching the moon printed on one side of the surface. He had no idea what any of this meant, or what his purpose was. ...A second chance at life, was it? No bone was thrown, sure, but… whoever it was, he owed them at least a thank you, and a thousand more questions.


End file.
